


By the Sea

by isis_and_osiris



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Captain Swan - Freeform, Captain Swan AU - Freeform, F/M, captain swan fluff, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-02-23 20:03:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 19,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2553839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isis_and_osiris/pseuds/isis_and_osiris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Emma Swan moves to a small town in Maine to escape her past the last thing she expects is for her new place to have a ghost. Much less the 300 year old ghost of a pirate. But maybe he will be exactly what she needs as she starts over and finds love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

If there were one thing Emma Swan would have thought was a safe bet it was that she would never choose to live in this sleepy Maine town. But, after everything, she’s decided no bets are safe. After all she learned betting from the best: a pirate. And he is where her story begins, or at least where it gets interesting.

Technically, this story begins on a rainy Tuesday afternoon in Portland. Neal, her boyfriend, had told her to pack a bag. He had gotten a few days off work and they were going to Florida, to Tallahassee. Emma had never been south of Sacramento and sunshine seemed a reasonable remedy for the dreary spring they were having. In all honesty her dream vacation would have been a trip to Disneyland. She had been dying to go all her life, but it was always just out of reach, and never in the budget of her foster homes. Princesses were always a weakness of hers. The fantasy of a perfect family and all that.

Emma packed and repacked her bag four times throughout the afternoon the excitement of a real vacation humming through her. She was narrowing down the books on the shelf, auditioning them to be her perfect ‘beach book’ when she noticed the time: 7pm. Neal should have been back, it was almost time to leave. She had just left her second voicemail on his phone when the police knocked on her door. 

She never got Tallahassee, her perfect vacation, and she never saw Neal again other than the sketch the police had. Perhaps it was for the best he had not swept her up on his crime spree but it didn’t stop the cold sting of betrayal. Some dark part of her hoped they caught him.

Swearing off Portland, vacations, Florida, hell the whole south, and men just for good measure she packed her things and moved to the farthest corner of the country: Storybrooke, Maine.


	2. Driftwood

“It’s got a view of the waterfront,” the landlady, Belle, said moving into the small living room in the back of the little cottage. The sunlight streamed in through the windows casting a warm glow through the place. “There’s a small path down to the shore.”  
“Can you go swimming?” Emma asked.  
Belle looked at her skeptically, “It’s Maine.”  
“So that’s a no,” Emma concluded.  
“Unless you’re planning to pack on a lot of blubber… I wouldn’t suggest it.”  
Emma stood there not sure how to respond.  
“Although,” Belle continued, “if that is your plan, I would suggest Granny’s. The pie is delicious. But avoid the lasagna, _trust me_.”  
“All right, then,” Emma said uncomfortably not sure if her eyebrows could move farther up her head.   
“So, what do you think?” Belle asked gesturing around the room.  
“Um, it’s nice.”  
“But you’re not convinced,” Belle finished a knowing look on her face.  
“It’s just, I’m still not sure I’m doing the right thing.”  
“Moving to Storybrooke?”  
Emma nodded.  
“It’s a lovely town. The people are fantastic. A great place to build a life.”  
“To write a new chapter,” Emma muttered to herself.  
“Hmm?” Belle asked turning to her.  
“Oh, nothing,” Emma said. “It’s just I’m a writer.”  
“Moving to a quiet town in the woods, how very Thoreau.”  
“A book lover,” Emma surmised.  
"Guilty," Belle said. “Well, take a minute, look around. I’ll be out by my car."

Emma ran her hand across the smooth counter separating the living room from the kitchen making her way to the wide sliding glass door across the back wall. She flicked the lock and slid the door open with some effort.

The air outside was cool, still holding a bit of winter, and heavy with the moisture and salt from the sea. Emma took a deep breath filling her lungs with air that felt like Portland, and yet there was something refreshing, almost healing about it. Maybe this wasn’t as insane an idea as it seemed. And if this didn’t work out there were plenty of other backwater nooks where she could try again.

\---

“So that’s it then?” Emma asked putting the pen beside the lease she had just signed.  
“That’s it,” Belle smiled pulling out a set of keys and handing them to her. “If you have any problems you can call that number. The town is back down the road we came up, just make a left on Applewood Drive.”  
“Great.”

Emma brought her alarmingly few possessions inside. Her little pile of baggage looking a bit pathetic on the living room floor. Luckily, the cottage had come partially furnished and Emma decided she wouldn’t need to venture into town until the next day. 

For dinner she finished the package of pop-tarts she had snacked on in the car and the last remnants of a bottle of whiskey that Neal had bought for poker night with his friends. “Guy’s night,” he had said with a not quite sorry smile as he pushed her away from the table.   
“No guys tonight,” Emma told the amber liquid as she swirled it in the glass. There was something cathartic about having stolen his booze.

Emma collapsed heavily onto the bare mattress, not having sheets yet. It wasn’t the worst sleeping arrangement she’d had and she fell into a dreamless sleep the sound of the waves outside just audible.


	3. Changing Winds

The first time she saw him was two days later. She was making her way back up the path from the shore when she saw a figure on the hill by the cottage. In the dim evening light he was just a shadow, an outline against the sky, looking out at the ocean.

At first she thought she might have a neighbor, or a visitor. She had quickened her pace so she could meet him. But as she rounded the last corner and ducked around the low hanging branch of the tree at the trailhead he had vanished from the spot.

“Hello?” she called out scanning the tree line for the man. “Is someone there?”

But there was no answer and she blamed it on the shifting shadows from the sunset and the fact she had been avoiding the eye doctor. Perhaps her contacts were no longer the right prescription- that could get added to the list of things she definitely did not have money for.

It was a few days after that when she first heard the story.

“You’re the writer that just moved into that cottage by the water,” a voice said beside her.

Emma glanced up as the woman slid into the booth across from her.

“Oh, um, yeah, I am.”

“Well, welcome to Storybrooke,” she beamed, almost annoyingly cheerful. “By the way, you should really try the pie here,” she said conspiratorially.

“That’s what I’ve heard,” Emma said. “But I’m taking it slow. Easing my way into Granny’s cuisine.”

“Probably a smart move,” she agreed. “And hot chocolate is a good choice too.”

Emma smiled tightly not sure if commentary on food choices was the norm here.

“I’m Mary Margaret,” she said after an awkward silence.

“Emma.”

“It’s so great to have someone new in town.”

“Yeah,” Emma agreed without conviction.

“So, have you seen him?” Mary Margaret asked her almost bouncing on the seat.

“I’m sorry, who?”

“The ghost,” She said dropping her voice to a whisper her eyes wide.

“The… _ghost_?” Emma repeated slowly.

“Yeah, it’s this old legend. Kids around here camp out on the beach hoping to see him sometimes. It’s become kind of a rite of passage.” She explained.

“I’m really not following,” Emma admitted.

“The ghost! He haunts the coast just north of the pier. Story is he’s some naval officer who got in a duel with his brother over the woman he loved. Then his own brother took off with her and sailed off. And now he stands on the shore and waits for her to return. It’s such a bittersweet story. I’ve never seen him myself, although David- my husband- swears his friend Robin saw him. Now I know Granny has seen him, and Leroy claims to have seen him too. But really, he says a lot of things, so that’s not really a good sourc-“

“Mary Margaret!” Emma said cutting off her rambling. Mary Margaret looked up at her sheepishly.

“Well, that’s the story anyway,” she concluded lamely.

“Every town has a ghost story,” Emma said dismissively.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “But you should keep your eyes open. You might get lucky what with living right by the shore.”

“Well, I’ll keep that in mind. It’s a shame I didn’t know about it before, I probably could have asked for a discount on the rent since the place is haunted.”

“Oh, no,” Mary Margaret said shaking her head, “He’s a nice ghost, nothing to worry about.”

“Oh good,” Emma said sarcastically, “That’s a relief.”

“No need to be cynical,” she scolded, though even that managed to be light-hearted. “A writer like you ought to have a big imagination for stuff like this.”

Emma looked down at her mug of hot chocolate. The words hit a sensitive spot within her. Neal had always said she lacked imagination; the foster system making her overly pragmatic. But she did have an imagination, and it had only gotten her into trouble. She had imagined a family, going to a first rate college not just a few community college classes, a trip to Disney, she had imagined a life with Neal, settling down, PTA, the whole thing. Now so she just channeled that imagination into the fictional lives of others.

“Listen,” Mary Margaret said breaking her train of thought. “You should come out to dinner with David and I. We could show you around town a bit.”

“Oh, that’s not-“ Emma started.

“No, I insist,” she said. And maybe it was the look of expectation on her face or the fact that she really didn’t know anyone here yet, but she felt herself caving.

“Okay,” she said.

“Great! How about tomorrow?”

With a small smile from Emma, Mary Margaret slid off the bench seat and moved to talk to the old woman behind that counter that she assumed was Granny.

That night Emma found herself looking out the back window across the small yard and up and down the shoreline. Her foot dragged lazy patterns into the floor behind her as she sipped box wine from her wine glass. She smiled to herself when she realized she was subconsciously looking for a ghost that didn’t exist. Her life didn’t need any more ghosts.


	4. Civil, Nautical, Astronomical

Dinner with Mary Margaret and David was not as bad as she had been dreading. Emma had always kept mainly to herself, but somehow the Nolans had been easy to spend time with. They were perfectly able to carry a conversation by themselves and yet made her feel included even when she added little to the discussion. And by the time the ice cream sundae came for dessert she was convinced having friends here might be worthwhile.

“Emma, Belle told me that your ex-boyfriend was a criminal,” Mary Margaret said, creating a direct antithesis to Emma’s last thought and earned her a nudge from David. She continued seeming unfazed by the foot she had jammed in her mouth. “I just meant to say David mentioned they have a position open at the sheriff’s station and you could totally take the job, track him down and lock the bastard up.”

David looked witheringly at his wife. “She has a job, Mary Margaret.”

“Yes, I do,” Emma said taking a deep breath to relieve the tension in her chest. Mary Margaret had meant the comment in the best way. “But I’ll keep it in mind, I haven’t exactly been productive on my new book.”

“Can you tell us what the story is about?” David asked.

“Well, it’s still very much in the conception stage.”

“So a lot of brainstorming is going on,” Mary Margaret said knowingly.

“Actually a lot of wine drinking has been going on,” Emma admitted.

“All writers have their process,” David smirked. Emma couldn’t stop the answering smile, his humor was very similar to her own.

The evening ended without too much more excitement. As they got back into their cars in the lot behind the little Italian restaurant Emma promised to have them over when she got her house under control and she was completely moved in.

Back at the cottage Emma walked around the rooms thinking of ways to make it a bit homier. Perhaps rounding out the furniture in the living room, and hanging curtains- that would be a good start.

It was in that vein that Emma found herself in a small store off Main Street early the next morning.  
“That end table has quite the story to tell,” the owner said coming to stand beside her.

“Hmmm,” Emma hummed running her hand over it. “Maybe I should get it then. If it would tell me its story I could finally have something to send my publisher.”

“Ah, the new writer. What a pleasure,” he said.

“Wow, news really does get around a small town,” she muttered. “I’m Emma Swan.”

“Oscar Walsh, but call me Walsh,” he said holding out his hand his smile inviting and charming.

“So the end table, huh?” she asked a little flirtatiously.

“Definitely.”

“Does it have a mate?” she asked blushing when he raised his eyebrows.

“I just mean,” she backtracked, “I have this couch and it would look good with one on each side. I’m thinking I may also want an armchair for the corner by the window. But that may have to wait, and I think I want to get a few stools for the counter by my kitchen; it’s kind of a breakfast bar. I feel like that could be nice, and it would be extra seating if people came over. Not that people come over really….” She trailed off. She wasn’t normally one to babble and the look on his face made her want to slam her head onto the end table in front of them.

He chuckled lightly. “Well, that is quite the vision. But I’m afraid it’s just the one end table, although I could order something for you.”

“That’s ok,” she waved it off. “I’ll probably just look somewhere else.”

The instinct to run flooded through her. She eyed the distance to the door calculating how fast she could she could be out the door, starting her car, driving off, fifty miles away.

“Well you know,” he said drawing her attention back. “I do have some stools if you want to take a look. I bet you’d like them.”

“I guess I could take a look,” she allowed, something in his smile dissipating the embarrassment and she did need furniture after all.

“Come on,” he waved for her to follow him, “I’m sure I have what you’re looking for.”

The stools were perfect she had to admit. They were dark wood that would look great against the cottage’s light cabinets and they were just the right height.

“I’ll take both,” she told him.

“Perfect,” he said. 

They each grabbed one as they wove their way through jumbled pieces back to the register. 

“You know, I could throw in the end table, if say, you went out to dinner with me.”

She looked up at him in surprise. “No, I can’t ask you to do that.”

He shook his head. “Really you’d be doing me a favor, after all it doesn’t even have a match.”

She smiled. “Dinner?”

“Is that a yes?”

“What if I’m just agreeing for the end table?”

“I guess I’ll have to take that chance.”

“I guess I’ll have to go out to dinner then.”

He smiled. “All right.”

“Who would have thought two dinner invitations in a week,” she mused.

“Two? Do I have competition?”

“No,” she laughed. “Trust me you definitely don’t.”

“Great, I’ll see you tomorrow.”


	5. Albatross

Emma spent the next afternoon soaking up some sunshine and putting her back deck to use. It was just a small area off the back of the house accessible through the sliding glass door. There was a railing down both sides and the edge farthest from the house was open and slightly raised off the ground. Emma sat on the edge her legs hanging over the edge and swinging slightly. It was a habit she picked up from sitting on too tall mismatched chairs in foster homes filled with mismatched kids.

She had her laptop open in front of her the blank document she had pulled up mocking her. But she was dutifully ignoring it as she shopped online for curtains. 

“It is a beautiful view isn’t it?” a voice said.

She jumped at the sound turning to see a man beside her, standing next to the deck. “Holy shit!” she exclaimed at his appearance.

“My, greetings sure have changed,” he remarked.

He was dressed in a heavy black leather coat. His dark hair moving slightly in the breeze. From her angle she immediately recognized him as the man she had seen before.

“You startled me. I’m sorry, are you my neighbor?” she asked him.

He looked down at her contemplatively, and she was momentarily derailed by the shade of his eyes. A clear blue at odds with the shade of his hair, made more brilliant by the kohl lightly lining his eyes.

“I like to think the sea is my home,” he told her at last, his accent catching the words.

That sunk in for a second, pieces sliding into place. She narrowed her eyes taking in his appearance more carefully. The rings on his fingers, the matching leather vest and tall boots. 

“Are you the ghost?” she asked the question insane to her own ears.

“Excuse me?”

“They said there’s a ghost of a naval officer around here.”

“I’m not a naval officer,” he told her.

“If it’s any consolation you don’t look like one. You look more like you’re a pirate.”

“Ah,” he sighed heavily his eyes taking on a deep sadness. “That I am.”

“Can ghosts talk?” she asked him.

“Are you having this conversation by yourself, love?”

“Maybe?” she said skeptically. Although she hadn’t even been drinking. She watched him from the corner of her eyes as he stood just off the edge of the deck. He seemed real enough. Not at all transparent or shimmery like ghosts always were in movies.

“You’re new to town,” he said not really a question.

“Geez,” Emma muttered. “They even tell the ghost all the gossip here.”

He watched her carefully as though reading her expression.

“I’m sorry, we haven’t been properly introduced; I’m Killian Jones.”

“Emma Swan,” she reciprocated not sure why she was indulging this delusion.

“You’re really here?” she asked just to be sure.

“Do you normally hallucinate dashing pirates?” he countered.

“No, this would be new,” she admitted. “But so is talking to a ghost.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, I don’t normally talk to people.”

“Could have something to do with being a ghost,” she offered.

“Actually I find most people aren’t receptive to it.”

“Are you saying I’m special?” 

He looked her up and down and something about the lazy brush of his gaze sent a tingle up her spine. She actively had to remind herself that this was only happening because she was insane, or talking to a dead man.

“I think you know a lot about loss," he said sincerely his voice holding equal parts weathered wisdom and gentleness.

“Is that right?”

He shrugged. “You’re a bit of an open book.”

“Uh huh,” she said unconvinced. That was something she had not heard before. She was usually told she was distant, shut off, an island. 

“What’s it like being dead?” she blurted out before wincing. You probably weren’t supposed to ask that. He was a ghost after all; he obviously wasn’t over it. “Sorry, you don’t have to answer that,” she added hastily.

He smiled a half smile his eyes full of a depthless emotion. “It’s like being stuck, everything just out of reach.” To illustrate his point he reached his fingers out as if to touch her, but they fell through her arm as if they were nothing but air. There was no cold feeling like they talked about in books and movies. There was nothing, no sensation. A pirate standing before her but he was empty.

“That is surreal,” she told him. 

He opened his mouth to speak when her phone alarm went off beside her. She scrambled to shut it off.

“Got a hot date, Swan?” he asked cheekily.

“Actually, yes,” she told him gathering up her things. He shifted his weight where he stood watching her. “I guess I’ll see you around?” she said lamely.

“Perhaps,” he smiled and it was handsome on him, crinkling the edges of his eyes.

“But,” she said pointing at him, “If I catch you peeking in on me at all, I don’t care if you’re dead I’ll drag you down to hell myself.”

He gave a slight bow, “As you wish, and I’m always a gentleman.”

“Good.” She said turning and walking back into her house. When she glanced back out the window the yard was empty. Yup, she was definitely insane.


	6. Barrier Island

“Have you heard of the ghost on the shore?” Emma asked Walsh half way through their steaks. The question had been burning in her the whole evening.

“Yeah,” he shrugged.

“Have you seen him?” she pressed leaning forward.

“No, neither has anyone else. It’s a spook story people tell each other to make this place more interesting,” he told her clearly uninterested.

“Huh,” she said rearranging the food on her plate.

“Listen, Emma, don’t let some dumb story freak you out.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said the truth flooding over her. Maybe she should be terrified, but as much as she tried her mind constantly fell back to blue eyes and sad smiles, and there was no fear, only a pull deep inside her to know more.

“Emma?” he asked drawing her from her thoughts.

“Hmm?”

“You seem distracted, are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she told him. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

“How is your story coming?” he asked.

“Oh,” she half shrugged. “It’s chugging along.” It was a lie, but it was easier to tell than the truth.

“Really?” he asked his tone surprised. “I would love to read some of your writing.”

“No,” she laughed. “That is _not_ first date territory.”

“Maybe someday,” he said.

She looked across the table at him, trying to imagine this man being with her. Trying to fit him like a puzzle piece in the disjointed picture of her life. “Maybe someday,” she repeated.

 

Walsh walked her to her car at the end of dinner. She stalled for a moment before ducking into her little VW beetle. For some reason an end of the night kiss didn’t seem right. 

“We should do this again,” Walsh said looking in the open driver’s window at her.

She barely hesitated, “Yeah.”

“I had a great time tonight, Emma.”

She smiled and jerked the gearshift into first. Walsh stepped back and she pulled away glancing in the rearview mirror watching him until she turned the corner and he was out of sight.

Back at her cottage she made a pot of coffee as she changed into comfortable clothes. It had been a good date. That was what she kept repeating to herself. But there was a shadow over the evening in her mind. And she wasn’t sure what had been off. By all rights, Walsh was a great guy. Why couldn’t she just let herself have a healthy relationship with a good guy, just once? 

She held the steaming mug in her hands as she slipped out onto the deck. The moon shone overhead almost completely full. It cast dancing light on the waves rhythmically crashing onto the sand. She glanced around, knowing full well what she was doing this time. But there was no sign of anyone. With a sigh she watched the waves for a few minutes before heading to bed.


	7. Incoming Tide

Emma was wearing baggy jeans and a tank top the next Saturday afternoon her hair tied up as she fought her way through hanging curtain rods. She was just finishing her last window, the window in the living room facing the ocean when she caught sight of him. He was standing off to the side of the house, on the hill looking out at the tide coming in.

She nearly dropped the power drill in surprise. During the last week she had almost convinced herself that he was really just in her imagination, a dream she had. On Wednesday she had laughed off a comment Mary Margaret had made about her haunted house when she ran into her downtown. It had been so easy to dismiss this insanity as some hyper realistic dream triggered by Mary Margaret’s story when they were standing on the street between errands. And as completely implausible as it had seemed then, seeing his figure out her window made it all seem extremely possible. She stepped off the stool and made her way outside.

“Killian,” she called experimentally.

He turned, taking her in as she walked toward him. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Swan?” he greeted.

“You’re blocking my view of the ocean,” she teased.

“Actually, I think I am outside of your property if not your view, and I’m fairly certain you can not force me to move if I am not on your land,” he told her.

She bit her lip contemplating her next move. “Would you like to maybe take this conversation to my property?”

He raised an eyebrow at her.

She scoffed, “Come on, follow me.” She turned and made her way back to the porch not looking to see if he was following. The clench in her stomach when she turned to see him just two steps behind her was alarming, but she pushed that aside.

“How can I be of assistance?” he asked.

“I figure if we are going to be living,” she broke off glancing at him apologetically, “next to, uh, nearby each other we might as well talk to each other.”

He watched her silently his eyes moving over her face, and she wondered if she really was an open book to him.  
“And what do we talk about?” he inquired.

She shrugged. “How was your day?” she tried.

He stared at her.

“Okay, um, did you catch the Yankee’s game?” she asked grinning.

“I see my existence is a joke to you,” he said darkly.

“Your existence is impossible,” she told him. Correcting the ghost. She was probably definitely slightly crazy.

“Is it so hard to believe that some can’t let go of their pasts? That I might not be ready to move on?”

“No,” she said softly, “That I understand completely.”

He regarded her for a moment before turning his gaze back to endlessly rolling ocean.

“Okay, maybe new plan. Care for a drink?” she said.

He turned to her, confusion on his face.

“It’s five o’clock somewhere?” she joked.

“I’m not sure what that has to do with it,” he replied.

“Can you-“ she paused. “Would you like to come inside?”

A storm raged in his eyes but he nodded. She stepped back and slid the door open and stepping through and watched as the ghost of Killian Jones the pirate stepped over the threshold into her house.

“Quite the home you made, Swan,” he complimented looking around them.

“You should compliment the curtains,” she told him. “I put them up today.”

He glanced over at the white curtains swaying lightly in the breeze through the open windows. “Very impressive.”

She bent down to the cabinet that held her liquor running her hands over the bottles. She glanced up at him wondering what was appropriate. Rum. She pulled out the Captain Morgan spiced rum putting it on the counter. Killian walked over reading the label.

“I don’t know this ‘Captain Morgan,’ but rum is rum,” he said. And Emma decided to take that as approval.

She grabbed two glasses from the cabinet and filled one about to move to the second when he held out a hand.

“Don’t,” he said. “I won’t be able to drink that.”

She instantly felt silly remembering how his hand had slipped through her. There was no way he could hold a glass, or drink. She was about to ditch the whole idea when he reached into his pocket.

“Don’t worry, lass,” he assured her holding up a flask. “I have my own supply.”

“I suppose I can allow that,” she smiled taking her glass and holding it up. “Cheers.”

“To new curtains,” he said making her laugh. “And to new friends,” he added more seriously meeting her eyes. She nodded and took a drink from her glass. The rum burned pleasantly on the way down and she finished her glass before reaching to refill it.

“Can I ask you a question?” she asked him. He nodded once in response. “The story around town says you’re a naval officer, but you’ve been claiming to be a pirate. Just what is your story?”

He stroked his chin. “Bit of both, I guess. There were circumstances that led to me realizing the navy was not what I had thought it was. So I took my ship and my crew and turned against my country.”

“And became a pirate?”

He shrugged though he didn’t quite achieve nonchalance. “You have to fight for what you believe in.”

She tapped her fingers on her glass considering his words.

“And you, Swan? What’s your story?” he asked.

“Oh no,” she shook her head. “That’s not happening.”

He raised in eyebrow half in question half in expectation. Emma drained the rest of her second glass hoping rum might help make the question seem less daunting. It didn’t. The third glass didn’t either.

“Let’s just say, even though only one of us is dead, you’re not the only one with a tragic story. And we don’t want to dig up those skeletons tonight.”

He watched her for a moment as he always did. “As you wish,” he replied simply.

\---

They talked for a long while, spanning everything and nothing. She had pointed out a few adjustments she had made to the cottage and he was always interested and complimentary. Although, he did comment on her car making her laugh.

Later when the rum started making her body and mind heavy she directed them over to the couch where Killian was immediately intrigued by her iPad.

“It’s connected to the internet, the reservoir of all knowledge,” she told him. “For example,” she said pulling up Google and typing in ‘Killian Jones.’

Google spit back results, the top result being a ghost sighting blog. She clicked on it bringing up a story about an officer pining for his love lost at sea. There was even an imaginative drawing of a scraggly old man in tattered naval uniform hunched into the wind off the ocean.

“See,” she said proudly, “You’re on a ghost blog.”

He stared. “That’s…” he trailed off uncharacteristically out of words. He shifted scratching behind his ear as he looked over the page. “That’s not even what I look like,” he muttered.

“Of course,” she said heavily. “You’re upset that they didn’t make you devilishly handsome. Cut them some slack, I mean come on, what are you like 300?”

“Doesn’t mean I look like that. It’s supposed to be the reservoir of all knowledge,” he pointed out.

She laughed shutting off the iPad sliding it back onto the coffee table. “We’ll write them a strongly worded letter,” she promised him with a yawn.

“I should let you get some sleep,” he said standing from the couch. It was an odd sensation not being jostled at all by the motion. She was surprised how his being a ghost still startled her at times. Although, how does one get over that?

“Thank you for coming in,” she said. “This was fun.”

He smiled. “Yes, it was, a more enjoyable time than I have had in a very long time.”

She walked him to the back door and opened it for him, not knowing if it was necessary. He walked through the door glancing back once before stepping off the porch and fading into the darkness.

She watched the spot for a long moment pondering her ghost. It was too mystical to fully wrap her head around. She stepped back into her cottage and hauled the sliding door shut, and she thought that would make the enchantment of his presence evaporate. That once he was out of sight the world would return to hard angles, difficult truths and deadlines. But there was a softness that remained. He had brought some of that magic into her house and now she was beginning to see it in a new light.


	8. Sea Glass

Slowly Emma’s life eased into a pattern. She was starting to recognize some of the faces around town. And without fail she forced herself to sit and write, just a little each day. There was nothing worse for writer’s block than letting it win.

Some evenings she would meet Walsh. He took her to an art exhibition by a local sculptor, Marco, at the library. Walsh had introduced her to Marco and he recounted how he had started whittling as a boy and over time that had blossomed into the passion that surrounded them.

And other nights there was a pirate waiting for her. They had started taking walks along the shore. He was always interested in what she had been doing, though she mostly shrugged off the inquiries. Sometimes he told stories of sailing the sea embellished with details of the characters of his crew. She especially loved to hear about Smee, who as far as she could gather had been his first mate. Other times he talked animatedly about the currents of the ocean and the feel of the ship coming to life beneath his feet as the wind caught the sails just right.

Sometimes they just stayed in companionable silence sitting on her deck, watching the day paint its goodbye across the sky slowly giving way to a darkness she had never experienced in Portland lit brilliantly by thousands of stars stretching all the way to the horizon.

And once a week Emma met up with Mary Margaret for lunch. Over the three weeks she had become more adventurous with her choices at Granny’s. It was a heartbreakingly new feeling to have a friend, someone to search her out, to share with. But it was a welcome change. She was starting to feel her life solidify, the tentative roots she had lain growing strong, the hopes made real. 

“So tell me,” Mary Margaret implored at this week’s lunch, which had actually been pushed to a brunch by her schedule. “How was your date with Walsh?”

Emma shrugged.

“Come on, Emma.”

“It was just dinner at Granny’s. We hadn’t seen each other in over a week.”

“And….” She prompted.

“I’m not sure, there’s just not really a spark,” Emma admitted.

Mary Margaret looked at her over her pancakes. “Oh my god,” she exclaimed startling Emma. “There’s someone else. Who is it? It’s Graham the sheriff isn’t it?”

“What? No. No, it’s not Graham,” Emma stammered.

Her eyes widened. “But there is someone! I knew it! You have to tell me.”

Emma pushed aside the blue eyes that flitted through her mind. “No, there isn’t anyone else. I’m just not sure about Walsh.”

Mary Margaret looked at her skeptically and Emma was afraid she was going to keep pressing but Ruby mercifully materialized and refilled their coffee. And with the interruption she seemed to drop the interrogation.

“So you’ve been moved to teaching fourth grade?” Emma asked her steering the conversation safely away from her.

“Yes,” she smiled, “It was just a temporary thing, but I have really enjoyed it. I think I might request to stay teaching fourth grade. It’s such a fun age. And I get to teach some of the local history as part of the social studies curriculum, which I love.”

“That’s great,” Emma said.

“Yeah, it’s so much fun to see them learning and growing. It feels good to have an impact like that.”

Emma nodded the sentiment sticking with her. For a while, even before the move, she had felt like something was missing. That she wanted to do something outside of herself. Sometimes writing could be isolating and egotistical.

Mary Margaret rushed through the rest of her breakfast. She had an appointment with an OBGYN as she and David were considering starting a family. She was buzzing with excitement. Part of Emma was pleased for her, Mary Margaret would make a great mother, but part of her ached with scars of the past. She wished someone had been as excited to be her parent as Mary Margaret was.

 

Emma was making her way out of Granny’s when a flier tacked to the wall caught her eye. At first was the Child Services logo on the bottom that had grabbed her eye making her chest clench. But the flier was for a social worker that specialized in working with children.

 _“You have to fight for what you believe in.”_ Killian’s words from their first evening echoed through her mind. She found herself pulling off one of the tabs before she had consciously made the decision.

Before long she was outside a small office off the main street. 

“Hello?” Emma called into the empty reception area.

A head popped around the corner, a young blonde woman. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Oh, um,” Emma held up the tab she had pulled from the flier, “I saw this, I wanted to see if you were still looking for help?” It came out as a question.

“Yes, of course, yes,” she responded stepping fully into the room. “I am always in need of a hand, and you could not have come at a better time. Can you start today?”

Emma glanced around waiting for the instinct to run from her past to clamp down, but it didn’t. “I guess so.”

“Great, well it would really just be a part time commitment. You can make your own hours. Unfortunately, I can’t pay very much,” the woman said quickly.

“That’s okay,” Emma said. “I just wanted to see if there was a way to help.”

“That’s very kind.”

“Well, I-“ Emma hesitated, it wasn’t easy to talk about her childhood even now. “I was an orphan, and maybe I can make a difference to someone else.”

“Well, let me show you around, introduce you to what I do, and you can decide if you want to sign on. Right this way…” she paused looking at Emma pointedly.

“Emma Swan,” she replied.

“Right this way, Emma,” she said showing her through the open door to the office in the back. “I’m Ashley, as you read on the sign.”

“What made you get into social work?” Emma asked.

“Well,” Ashley licked her lips and Emma was struck by how familiar the hesitation was. “I had a child as a teen, and I gave her up. I have always hoped that it worked out well for her, and that she had her best chance. But I want to help the other children and maybe that will make up for not being ready to care for my girl when she came into my life.”

“I’m sorry,” Emma said.

“No,” Ashley shook her head. “It was for the best, I know that.”

Emma smiled tightly and Ashley ran a hand through her hair before turning back to the office.

“This is my desk. The other desk was for my partner, but he left so that can be your desk. For the most part we deal with abused and homeless children. We relocate them to proper homes and facilities to get they care they need. Some children are from families that are below the poverty line. We help get them in touch with organizations to help with food, clothing and school essentials."

“Wow,” Emma mused.

“I know. It can be very heavy some days. It’s not for everyone,” she said obviously giving Emma an out.

“No, it sounds like you do a lot to these kids.”

“I hope so,” she said. Ashley stepped over to her desk flipping through some folders. “Here,” she said holding up a file. “Take a look through this, if you’d like to you can help me with this case.”

Emma took the folder and opened it on her desk.

“Grace,” Ashley said with tenderness. “She came to town a few days ago. She was separated from her father. She has been placed with a family, but I’m hoping to track down her own family.”

Emma looked down at the small girl in the photo. Her wide green eyes staring back at her. Emma felt her stomach flip at the sight of the slight girl who reminded her of herself at that age and also desperately looking for her family. Had a file with Emma’s picture ever ended up on someone’s desk? Had someone brushed it aside? Slipped it to the bottom of the pile? Had someone tried and never found anything? Did it make any difference?

“Okay,” Emma said.

Ashley got her set up at her desk and introduced her to some of the databases at her disposal. “If you have a question or find anything let me know.”

Emma got the hang of her task quickly, finding that she was very good at finding answers. She managed to locate records of Grace: her birth certificate, her school records. Emma smiled strangely proud when she saw Grace was a straight A student, except for algebra. Who could blame her for that? Grace had lived near Boston, like Emma. Scanning the birth certificate Emma found Grace’s father was named Jefferson. 

Emma tracked down some of his old employers’ records. He had worked as an accountant for a club called _Wonderland_ in Boston, he had been an event planner, and worked for some time at a tea company. A disjointed history, he certainly wore many hats, it would make predicting where he went more difficult. And there had been no forwarding address left with the post office.

Ashley stopped at her desk looking over her notes and some of the documents she had printed out. 

“Wow, you really have a knack for this. Where have you been all this time?” Ashley laughed.

Emma took a break from her search on Jefferson to look back through Grace’s folder. Maybe there was a clue why he left his daughter. Why would a parent abandon their child? What could have forced that decision?

Emma lowered her head into her hands taking a deep breath trying to relieve some of the tension in her chest. Her heart was pounding. She blew out a shaky breath her nose burning. Was this too much? Was she mad for doing this?

She glanced at the photo of Grace. No, if she could she would help her. There was nothing to be gained from folding back into herself and letting her past corrode everything from the inside out. And with new conviction she wiped a hand across her eyes and started a new search.

“Come on, Jefferson,” she muttered to the computer. “Where the hell are you?”


	9. Uprush

When Emma got home that evening from Ashley’s office she saw Killian sitting out on her deck in the fading light. The sight had become a familiar one and so welcome. She opened the door and he turned at the sound smiling up at her.

“How was your day?” he asked her.

“It was good,” she said truthfully.

“What happened?” he pressed obviously surprised by her answer, she usually just grunted in response to that question.

“I spent the day helping the social worker in town. We’re helping to track down a girl’s father.”

“Quite compassionate, Swan,” he said.

“I have you to thank,” she told him.

“Why’s that?”

“You inspired me,” she said and he smiled warmly in response. “It felt so good to help someone. Better than I have felt in a long time. If I had had a family out there, I would have wanted someone to care and help.”

“I’m glad for whatever small role I might have played,” he said. “Though I suspect that this had more to do with you than me.”

She had to look away from his steady gaze. “Would you like to come in?” she asked. He stood in lieu of a response and followed her. 

 

Inside, he leaned against the kitchen counter as she moved around the room; sorting mail, tidying, unloading the dishwasher. She tried to tell herself that this was just like having any friend over. But her eyes frequently slid over to where he was, watching him, his graceful movements, and the little expressions he made when he thought she wasn’t looking. He might have been a ghost, but he was handsome and she wasn’t blind.

She caught sight of him looking at the deck of cards stashed in the drawer by the sink filled with all sorts of odds and ends.

“You play cards?” she asked.

“I have played my share of poker, a good alternative to dice.”

“I never got invited to poker night,” she told him.

“That’s unacceptable,” he said.

“It’s all right,” she assured him.

“Come on, we’ll play.”

“I don’t know how,” she admitted.

“There’s only one way to learn.”

Emma looked at him for a minute gauging if he was serious. Slowly she slipped the cards from the cardboard box running her thumb over the deck. She sat on one of the stools by the counter and gestured for him to take the other.

“It’s a good thing you can’t touch the cards,” she said. “I’m sure letting you deal is dangerous.”

“I take offense to that accusation.”

“You are a pirate.”

“Seeing how you handle rum, I’d say I’m in good company.”

She glared at him. “Just tell me what to do.”

“Shuffle the cards, love,” he murmured his voice low.

She splayed the cards out on the table mixing them around with her hands thoroughly scrambling them and then collecting them back into a pile. She looked up for the next step to see his horrified expression.

“What the bloody hell was that?”

“I shuffled the cards,” she said innocently.

“That is _not_ what that was.”

“Shut up,” she chuckled, “What do I do now?”

“Give each of us five cards,” he directed gently.

She dealt them out before picking up her pile and studying them. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for. She glanced up at him watching her before reaching over and flipping his cards up so he could see them. He bit his lip as he looked them over and she hated how endearing it was.

“Okay,” he said. “So now we trade cards we don’t think will help us for new cards.”

“Wait, when do we bet?” she asked looking up at him.

“One step at a time, Swan. Let’s get this tied down first. How many cards do you want to trade?”

She could feel herself blush a little under his expectant look. “I’m not really sure,” she admitted.

He took a breath as though collecting his patience, and on anyone else it might have seemed in annoyance, but with him it was just a moment to think. “Why don’t you look up the desirable hands on your net device. You can reference that.”

She slipped off the stool and grabbed her iPad from the coffee table pulling up poker hands and laying it on the counter beside them before glancing over her cards again. She had a pair of fives, a six, a two and an ace. With a quick look over the diagram she decided to trade the two and the six, placing them on the discard pile.

“Now take two new ones,” he prompted her. She bit down on a smile as she added a five and a four to her hand.

She looked up to see him watching her; his eyes alight. 

“You have a terrible poker face,” he told her.

“One step at a time, Jones,” she said teasingly.

He smirked. “I’ll trade the one on the left,” he told her gesturing to his fan of cards.

She replaced it with a new card holding them up from him to see.

“Alright, let’s see how we fared,” he suggested and she flipped both of their hands. He had three jacks and two sevens, a full house, he had won.

“How did you do that?” she asked amazed.

“You dealt, darling,” he reminded her.

“Okay, let’s bet now.”

“And what do you propose we bet?” he inquired.

He had a fair point. What did you bet a ghost of a pirate? “Answers,” she said after a moment.

“Answers?”

“Truthful answers, to any question.”

He swallowed, the action making his neck bob. “Aye,” he agreed.

 

She stared down at her cards before glancing at him. After a few hands she had propped his cards against a thick cookbook so he could see them. He was looking at his hand and she was trying to read his expression, but he was quite adept at not revealing his thoughts.

She had less then nothing, a pitiful hand. But with two answers in the pot she wasn’t going to give up.

“Your turn,” he told her.

“I’ll bet two more answers,” she said. He studied her for a moment.

“I fold,” he sighed.

“Yes!” she said clapping her hands, “Two answers for me.”

“Let’s see your hand,” he said.

She laid down her hand, a motley assortment of cards. He looked over her cards realizing she had bluffed.

“Pirate,” he breathed though his expression was impressed. 

“I think I’m getting the hang of this,” she smirked.

“Just deal again,” he said.

 

In the end Emma had earned five answers from him, and he had won nine off her. She slid the cards back in the box carefully before settling back on the stool wrapping a leg underneath her.

“So what? We just fire questions at each other?” she asked.

“This was your idea.”

“I think we should be able to use the questions when we want to; save them if we want.”

“That sounds fair.”

“You start,” she said knowing she needed time to choose her questions.

“You never talk about your past.”

“That’s not a question,” she pointed out.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because there isn’t much I want to talk about. I didn’t have a fairytale childhood.”

“Where did you grow up?” he continued when he realized that was all she was going to say.

She picked at the hem of her shirt. “All over, I was in the foster system. I moved between homes a lot.”

“You’re an orphan?”

“Yeah,” she paused. “My parents left me when I was a baby. I don’t remember them at all.”

“What made you come here?”

“My boyfriend left me. He got in trouble with the police. I needed a new start.”

She looked up and met his gaze and his expression was almost like looking into a mirror and it held something almost like understanding. 

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” he asked.

“I allowed myself to trust and let that trust blind me.”

He looked away from her towards the darkened window as though he could see into the night instead of their reflection trapped in the glass. He remained quiet for a long moment, apparently out of questions. In the silence she decided it was her turn.

“How did you die?” she asked him quietly.

“My ship wrecked off the coast. There was a storm. I managed to grab a hold of some of the wreckage as the ship went down. The next morning I woke up on shore as I am now. I must have died in the night.”

He reached up to brush back his hair and his sleeve fell slightly.

“Who’s Milah?” she asked reading the name within the tattoo on his wrist. She had seen glimpses of it before.

He met her eyes for a moment his eyes dark before rubbing a hand over the ink on his forearm.  
“Someone from long ago.”

“What happened to her?”

“She’s gone.”

She waited for more of an explanation but he didn’t elaborate. For a long time they sat in silence broken only by the sound of the waves outside, rhythmic, like the heartbeat of the ocean.

“Have you ever been in love?” he asked softly.

She considered the question trying to be truthful. She tried to apply the words to her relationships, to Walsh, to Neal. “No,” she said, “I’ve never been in love.”

They sat together a while longer though neither asked any more questions.


	10. In Irons

“Two teaspoons cumin,” Emma repeated under her breath as she dug through the drawer trying to find the right sized measuring spoon. She poured the spice over the meat and vegetables braising in the pan. The smell slowly brought the room to life with its promise. 

She leaned over to check the recipe again, trailing her fingers down the instructions.

“Seems awfully complicated,” Killian’s voice chimed in from where he was sitting across the counter behind her. She glanced over her shoulder at him leisurely leaning toward her from his perch on his stool. It had been a week since he had sat in the same seat playing poker with her.

“Not everyone is content with rum and dried crackers, Captain,” she said.

“We ate better than that, Swan,” he told her with a hint of exasperation. “Though nothing this intricate.”

It was true, almost every dish and pot she owned was scattered around the kitchen in various states of filthy. She was not the most efficient or graceful cook, but she got the job done. She turned back to tending the pan; maybe she was trying too hard.

“I just want tonight to go well,” she admitted. Walsh was coming over for dinner.

She could feel his eyes on her, and it made her almost nervous, the skin at the back of her neck prickling.

“He better appreciate the work that went into this,” Killian said.

She laughed shakily. “Well, he did try to convince me to just go out tonight. But this is better, just a nice night in. And a meal cooked with love.”

“There are other ways to show a man love,” he teased. She raised her eyebrows turning to him. He grinned devilishly not a bit repentant.

“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” she told him sagely.

His blue eyes danced in amusement. “Right,” he said spreading his hands in a mocking bow, “Of course.”

“If you’re going to be mean you can leave,” she said sternly.

He chuckled leaning back before meeting her eyes. “It smells delicious, Swan, he’s a lucky man,” he said full of sincerity. 

She tore her eyes away from him. Her knees felt slightly unstable and she grabbed the glass of whiskey beside her taking a drink.

“Should you be drinking while tending the food?” he inquired.

She looked at the liquid before shrugging. “'Never cook sober,' that’s what they say,” she told him.

“I don’t think anyone says that,” he said shaking his head.

“Maybe it’s a modern saying, Captain.”

He watched her with piercing eyes and she suddenly felt completely exposed, as though all her careful walls had disappeared in an instant. Not cracked, or brought down slightly, but gone. Her heart beat furiously in her chest as she fought for control.

“Are you nervous?” he asked reading her.

She scoffed and turned back to the stove her hand shaking just slightly as she grabbed the spatula. She felt a little better no longer trapped by his gaze.

“Emma,” Killian said gently from behind her. “Not that you have anything to be nervous about, but nerves are not always a bad thing. They show us what is important. You care about tonight.”

She turned slowly back to him. 

“Caring about your date is a good thing, Swan. Love is about taking chances, and that takes guts. You’ve been betrayed in the past but you can’t run from that forever. It’s ok to feel your scars, to let them be a part of you. But I would have you not make my mistakes, don’t let them lock you up, don’t let them define you. Let someone find them beautiful.”

She smiled tightly, a little overcome by his words. “Okay.”

“He’s a lucky man,” Killian told her again his eyes bright. 

How was she had come to have a ghost pirate as her biggest supporter, a true ally and possibly- she cut off the thought before it could fully form. There were some parts of their connection she was not willing or ready to examine fully. She had come to need him, and that scared her enough. But, tonight was about Walsh. 

She glanced at the clock. It was already almost six thirty; she had to get ready. Where had the time gone? She ran a hand through her hair, shaking off some of the heavy sentiment.

“Can you watch this?” she asked him gesturing to the pot. “Just yell if it starts boiling over or smoking or something,” she said turning the dial down. 

He nodded in response slipping gracefully off his stool and moving toward the stove. Satisfied, she hurried off to her room hearing him mutter something that sounded like ‘Never been much good in the galley.’

She closed the bedroom door and leaned against it closing her eyes and taking a deep breath to calm the butterflies in her stomach. 

She pulled a deep red cocktail dress from her closet. It might be a little dressy for a night in, but there was a part of her that had something to prove. She pulled her hair out the ponytail that had held it while she was cooking. It fell in loose waves onto her shoulders.

She touched up her make up and dabbed a little _Cartier Le Baiser du Dragon_ on her wrists. She slipped into black heels and glancing in the mirror she decided she was ready, her armor in place.

“You didn’t burn the house down, right?” she called rounding the corner and re-entering the main room. Killian was still beside the stove. He turned at the sound of her voice, his eyes widening as she approached.

His mouth dropped open for a moment before he shook himself. “Swan,” he breathed staring at her.

“What do you think?” she asked doing a twirl for him. He stood before her stiffly not answering. 

“You okay?” she asked.

“Aye, love,” he said running a hand over his chin before gesturing to the stove.  
“You should probably check that, make sure I haven’t ruined it.”

“Right,” she agreed picking up the spatula and stirring the food. The rolls in the oven beeped and she slipped them into a basket, before placing a lid on the pan to keep it warm. 

She placed the rolls on the set table and spun taking account of everything. “How is that?” she asked feeling proud of her work. Finally a tickle of excitement spread in her now she could stop worrying she would ruin the food. 

“Looks fit for royalty,” Killian murmured watching her.

“Something like that,” she replied grabbing dirty dishes and chucking them haphazardly into the dishwasher. She would deal with them later; right now she just needed them out of sight.

At that second there was a knock and they both turned to look at the door. Emma smoothed down her dress nervously.

“Captain, if you would be so kind,” she said motioning to the back door.

“As you wish, my lady,” he replied before meeting her eyes. “Have a good time, Swan.” 

He slipped gracefully out the open door. He made his way toward the trail to the shore, disappearing from sight between the trees. With a deep breath she turned her back on Killian and walked, a little skip in her step, to the front door.

“Walsh,” she greeted as she opened it for him. His eyes ran up and down her.

“Emma,” he replied. “You look beautiful.”

She smiled her chin dipping toward her shoulder. “Come in,” she waved him in.

“Thank you, it’s an honor to finally see the place.”

Emma walked him into the great room gesturing around. “What do you think?”

Walsh smiled. “I like the stools,” he said. “But then, they are mine.”

Emma bit her lip her eyebrows pulling down. She put her hand on her hip taking a deep breath. 

“Take a seat,” she said motioning to a chair at the table and walked over to the stove to grab the pan.

“It looks good,” Walsh said as she served him.

“I haven’t cooked this much in a long time, it was actually quite fun.”

“Well, this is incredible,” Walsh said taking in the spread. “I could get used to this. We should do this more often. Perhaps next time I’ll cook.”

“A tradition?” Emma wondered. The idea was intoxicating; she had never been anywhere long enough to have traditions. Neal had had traditions, but he hadn’t included her in the ones that mattered to him.

“Sure, it could be our new tradition.”

“I’d like that,” she said sitting across from him.

“To the lovely hostess, and chef,” Walsh toasted raising his glass of red wine. She nodded in response taking a sip.

Walsh set his wine glass down. “So the other day I was in town, and you wouldn’t believe what I saw.” He said excitedly.

“What?” she asked playing along.

“There was a sign for a magician. It was from years ago- on the building across from Granny’s where everyone hangs advertisements. I think it was buried under layers for years until it was uncovered recently.”

“A magician?” Emma repeated, not quite following him.

“Yeah, I don’t know. I’ve always been fascinated by them. The slight of hand, the mystery. And that one second when something impossible becomes believable, and it becomes real, tangible. There’s something magical in seeing the impossible.”

“Hmmm,” she agreed.

“And it’s the showmanship. I saw one once I would bet my left hand was an actual magician. He had a handkerchief that he threw and in midair it turned into a dove that flew away. I still think back to that sometimes, trying to work it out.” He admitted with a laugh she joined in with.

“It’s embarrassing I suppose. But maybe in another life I would have done that instead.”

“Maybe. Who knows what we could have been in another life.”

“But,” he said with a sigh, “in this life I am in the furniture business.”

“So how is the furniture business?” she asked him.

“Hhm,” he said quickly swallowing his bite. “I finally found a home for the desk I’ve had for over five months. It was really beautiful, all custom carved.”

“Found a home?” she asked. “You make it sound like a shelter puppy.” _Or foster child._

“They all have a story, a history. I find them a place to continue it.”

She took a sip of wine listening to him.

“Speaking of,” he continued. “How is your story? I can’t wait until I can tell people I know a writer.”

“Well, you know me now,” she laughed.

“I mean when the book’s published,” he clarified as though it was an obvious difference.

“Oh,” she replied. 

“I would love to read some,” he told her again.

“Maybe later,” she said turning back to her food, brushing him off as always. She had no idea why she found it hard to open up to him.

“Of course,” he said waving it off. “Right now we have a meal to enjoy.”

~*~

 

“Shall we go outside?” Emma asked after they were done eating.

“Do you want help with the dishes?” he asked looking at the table.

“No,” she shrugged, “Its fine.”

“Ok,” he said offering her his arm as they stepped outside. Emma was surprised when he stepped down off the deck and held up a hand to help her down after him. She took it grateful for the assist as she was in heels. She definitely should change if they weren’t staying on the deck.

But Walsh had already tucked her hand back into the curve of his elbow and was guiding her down towards the path to the water.

As the silty earth of the trail gave way to the rocky sand she pulled them to a stop and kicked off her shoes, letting the sand squish between her toes. The rough edges scraped at her skin in a way that wasn’t totally unpleasant. Within a few steps Walsh succumbed and pulled off his own shoes and socks. They joined hands as they strolled along the beach each overdressed and carrying their shoes.

The evening was still, the first of the season’s fireflies appearing before them down the beach, looking like little will-o-the-wisps for the old stories. The enchantment of it beside the strong crash of the waves across the sand made her heart sing.

“It’s so pretty tonight,” she said quietly afraid to break the spell. 

“But the mosquitoes will be out soon,” he said squeezing hand and slowly turning them back toward her house.

She glanced back over her shoulder trying to commit the scene to memory. Trying to think how she’d describe it in her writing. In that moment she was struck by how she wanted to share it. She wanted someone to look and see what she saw. Someone who was as awed by the simultaneous fleetingness and timelessness of nature. And it dawned on her that Killian would have understood. That he would have sat in the dune with her and watched the fireflies dance beneath the moon to the music of the waves.

How many times had she been down to this shore with him? His shore, the one he had watched over for centuries. It suddenly felt almost like intruding, that this was something private. Perhaps she shouldn’t have come here with Walsh. Not if he couldn’t feel it all alive around him. But how could she feel a connection to a memory and be surrounded by people that felt like ghosts?

Her life was complicated, more that she wanted to admit. As she said goodbye to Walsh she knew she was walking a line, and at some point she may have crossed without noticing.


	11. Aphotic Zone

Three days later Emma was having the queen mother of Mondays. She had woken up with a headache, and stubbed her toe on a pair of boots stumbling from her bed. She found out her milk was soured as she was pouring it over the last of her cereal. And there was still no news from the leads she was following up on for Grace. By lunch she was in need of rescuing. 

“Please,” Emma pleaded over the phone.

“Ok, but I get to pick the movie and you cannot complain,” Mary Margaret agreed.

Emma pursed her lips, that was a risky deal. “Okay,” Emma exhaled in defeat, but desperate times and all.

Mary Margaret burst in through the unlocked front door holding two bottles of red wine and proclaiming that she was not leaving until they were both gone and Emma didn’t protest.

“And as promised I brought entertainment. I brought _Ghost_ , if you’re feeling romantic,” she said wiggling her eyebrows and waving the box. “Or I brought _Anchorman_ , because you’re having a tough day and laughter is the best medicine.”

Emma looked at the movies she was holding up. “I thought you said you were picking the movie, this seems like I’m picking.” 

“Well, I did most of the work you’re just choosing exactly which one you want.” 

“Let’s go with _Anchorman_ , that seems the safest,” she said smiling to herself at the joke Mary Margaret didn’t even know she had made. 

“Okay,” she said dropping the other movie back into her bag and squatting down in front of the DVD player. 

The movie started and Mary Margaret popped the first bottle of wine. They settled in and before long Mary Margaret was giggling at the jokes. And Emma could feel her smile or chuckle struggling to surface and she downed more wine trying to loosen up enough to enjoy this. 

When the first bottle was almost empty Emma moved to grab the corkscrew from the kitchen counter and glanced out the window. A shadow on the beach caught her eye; she stared at it for a minute making up her mind. 

“Mary Margaret,” Emma said taking a breath. “There’s something I have to tell you.” 

“Sure,” she said distractedly, taking a sip of wine. 

“I met the ghost, the one you told me about.” 

Mary Margret swung around to look at Emma her eyes huge. “No way! Oh my god! Emma, you’re so lucky. Where? When?” 

“Come here,” Emma grinned waving her over to the window. 

“What?” she asked hesitantly coming over. 

“Look there,” Emma said pointing out to the beach where Killian was standing. 

“What am I looking at?” Mary Margaret asked squinting. 

“The ghost,” Emma said taken aback by her confusion. “On the beach.” 

She could see Mary Margaret’s eyes sweep the beach before she starting laughing. “Okay, very funny. I guess I deserved that.” She turned and flopped on the couch. “Come on your missing my favorite part.” 

Emma looked from Mary Margaret to the figure on the beach. _What was going on?_ The fluttering in her chest turned heavy and slithered weightily into her stomach clamping down as she slid back next to her on the couch. She swirled the wine around in her glass stealing glances at Mary Margaret who was fully engaged by the movie. She shook herself mentally trying to just enjoy the time with her friend even if the gimmicks of the movie were suddenly flat. 

Emma tried not to be glad when the movie ended. Mary Margaret was talking immediately about getting home to make dinner and Emma didn’t make much of a response as she walked her to the door still feeling in a daze and thanked her for coming over. 

Needing a change, Emma headed outside onto the porch and slouched into one of the chairs looking up at the clouds overhead wondering if it was going to rain. She rubbed her eyes still mulling over why Mary Margaret had not seen Killian, and it made her feel drained; so much for a relaxing afternoon. 

When she opened her eyes Killian was sitting on the chair beside her, like he was a figment of her imagination conjured by her thoughts. 

“Killian,” she greeted tiredly. 

“Evening, Swan,” he replied. 

“Mary Margaret was here today,” Emma said looking over at him. 

He watched her but didn’t respond. 

“I saw you down on the beach,” she said. “But she couldn’t.” 

He continued to hold her gaze but made no comment. Emma’s eyebrows pulled down and she straightened in the chair as she watched his reaction. 

“Any thoughts on that?” she asked. 

He waved her off but it was unconvincing. “It happens.” 

Her gaze flickered across his face trying to find any crack in his guarded expression, but found only the façade and yet something screamed out to her. In defeat she decided to put aside that conversation, as he was clearly not interested in having it. 

They sat together for a while as darkness settled, the night curling its fingers around them. This night was not calming or filled with endless possibility; lack of sight making the mind run wild. It was a pressing darkness and there was a chill on the air raising goose bumps on her skin under her shirt. Emma was not feeling particularly talkative, but to say Killian was quiet tonight was a gross understatement. He barely said three words and there was a tension in his posture. Whenever she made a joke desperate to coax a laugh from him his eyes lacked all their usually light. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked him unable to pretend any longer. 

“It’s nothing to worry about.” 

“Really?” she asked a little more sarcastic than she meant. “Because it’s not like you worry about taxes or politics. Seems like your problems might not be trivial.” 

“Quite perceptive,” he complimented but didn’t answer her question. 

“Was it Mary Margaret?” 

“No, I’m quite used to that.” 

“Killian,” she urged. “Don’t shut me out.” 

“I’m right here, Swan,” he told her tiredly. 

“Then why does it not feel like that? Don’t pull away.” 

“I’m not pulling away. If there’s one thing I’m good at it’s hanging around.” 

He smiled a cocky smile. Emma stared at him. His comment was not funny or amusing to her. He was closing her out, deflecting, just like everyone else. It was too much. The cold solidified in her unleashing everything festering in her. “No, Killian,” she said icily. “You’re not even really here, you’re a ghost, insubstantial.” 

His eyes widened at that. “Emma,” he said in surprise, his hand reaching out before it dropped lamely to his side. 

“You’re already gone,” she told him. “Maybe we should stop pretending.” 

He looked at her his expression a mix of hurt and determination. “I’m not pretending,” he told her seriously. 

“Why are you here?” she asked thinly. She wasn’t sure if she meant on her deck or the more broad sense. 

“Because I can’t move on,” he said. 

“Why?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Is it Milah? Or your brother?” she asked. 

His head snapped up violently. “Where did you hear about Liam?” 

She blinked. She hadn’t heard his name before. “What happened to him?” she asked. 

He bristled looking at her warily, the black of his pupils swallowing all the blue in dimness. 

“I know it can’t be easy to talk about.” 

“Then let’s not,” he suggested standing up and turning away. 

“I’ll use one of my questions,” she said and the words hung loudly between them. 

Even though his back was to her she could see his shoulders sag. He turned rubbing a hand over his face, his expression broken and a part of her wished she could reach out and comfort him. 

“Killian,” she said backtracking. “You don’t have to tell me.” She knew what it was like to have things that you just couldn’t talk about. He didn’t owe her this. 

“He was my captain,” he began anyway. “He was my hero. He was the best man I ever knew, and more honorable than should be humanly possible.” 

Emma smiled sadly at the pride in his voice. There was a pause and Killian sighed heavily sitting back on the chair before continuing. 

“He was the only family I had after my father walked out on us, and he always felt responsible for me. But I suppose this story can’t be told properly without talking about Milah. And I owe you that answer as well,” he said. 

She looked up at him; his eyes were full of a dozen emotions and a thousand miles away lost in a century she had never known. 

“Milah was from the village where we grew up. The three of us were inseparable. She was wild and adventurous and fiercer than a hurricane. I was in love with her before I was even old enough to know what that meant. And eventually we became lovers. 

“But her father didn’t approve, so much so that he took her to stay with her extended family, hoping it would break what was between us. We had promised that nothing would change, that we’d wait forever. But when she returned a year later, I was in the navy with Liam rising quickly and she had a fiancé. He was some wealthy merchant that her father arranged for her to marry. And I really thought that was the end. But then she came to me and begged me to take her away, to help her escape. And there was nothing I wouldn’t have done for her, so I deserted the navy and we took to the sea.” 

Emma listened fascinated by his tale, the fiction becoming truth, characters in a legend filling out into actual people now hundreds of years dead. 

“The navy doesn’t take that well, deserting is very bad form. And they came after us, hunted us across several seas. Somewhere in the Baltic Sea they cornered us, and we almost made it out. But at the last moment one lucky cannon ball split the starboard deck… and she was gone, taken in an instant.” He took a shuddering breath his eyes glistening. 

“After that I swore revenge. I had lost what was most important to me. And I found that under my love for Milah there was nothing but darkness. I’m not proud of those years, I became captain of a crew of the most despicable bilge rats and we plundered anything that crossed us. And when the crown couldn’t catch me they tracked down Liam, deciding that he could pay for my sins. 

“When I found out I stormed the prison that held him and broke him out. I’ll never forget the sight of him standing in the cell. But Liam told me that he wouldn’t come with me. That he would not become a fugitive, that he would rather serve the time in jail. Knowing I had forced him into an impossible situation I decided I would stop my destructive path, put aside the pirate and sail for the new world. Make a new start, an honest start. I asked him to come join me when he was released. I was just off the coast, half a mile from a chance at redemption when the Jolly went down. I have no idea what happened to Liam,” he finished heavily. 

“Is there a chance he left England?” she asked. 

He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know, Swan.” 

“I’m sorry,” she said knowing it was inadequate but it was closest words could come. 

He smiled sadly something sliding under the surface. 

“You’re not a bad person,” she told him sensing it weighed on him. Hell, she grappled with that as well, and she had never taken up piracy. 

He chuckled darkly, the sound wrong. “Oh, love, I know what I am.” 

“So do I,” she said strongly leaning toward him. “Everyone deserves a second chance. If you found out what happened to Liam would that let you find peace? If it would, I could help.” 

“I wouldn’t ask that of you.” 

She shook her head. “You don’t have to ask. You could just agree.” 

He nodded slowly. “Aye, I would very much like to know.” 

“Then of course I will help.” 

He met her gaze his own wrecked. 

“You miss them?” she asked knowing the answer. 

“Some days it feels like an eternity since I’ve seen them, that the world has moved on so far without me, nothing familiar. And sometimes I still turn to speak to them, somehow forgetting they won’t be there.” 

“I can’t imagine,” Emma murmured. 

“Can’t you?” he asked surprising her. 

“What?” 

“I think you understand feeling isolated and lost. What it’s like to see a thousand possibilities and have all of them vanish.” 

“Isolated?” she repeated to herself thinking of the night on the beach with Walsh. How she had felt alone while holding his hand. Killian watched her as though able to read her thoughts. 

“It won’t be forever,” he said. “There’s someone out there who will make you feel whole.” 

“Ah,” she mused. “I’m not sure that person is real.” 

“Answer a question for me,” he said the gentleness in his voice surprising her. “If I wasn’t, like I am, would you have considered going to dinner with me if I’d asked?” 

For a moment she could have sworn the chair fell out from under her. She swallowed around the lump in her throat as her heart beat furiously. The thought had crossed her mind on evenings when he kept her company, when he laughed his easy laugh. 

“Killian-“ she cautioned. 

“You have to answer, Swan,” he reminded her. 

She looked down at the floor. Studying the grain of the hardwood decking, ground down by years of sand worn into it. The question hung over her, but the answer was waiting inside her, at the surface of the storm within her. 

“I would have said yes,” she whispered. 

He reached out for her arm and she expected him to pull away as he always did. Her breath caught in her throat at the sensation of slight pressure on her arm; it was impossible. But then his hand pulled back as before, falling back to his side. She stared at her arm, her mind reeling. It had likely been her imagination, a wish, but in that moment he had become real. 


	12. Ballast

Emma slept uneasily that night, her thoughts chasing each other around her head. Her heart clenched thinking of her admission to Killian. It felt reckless and at the same time freeing, to speak her mind, to be held to the truth and to give it. And Killian had given her his past, a story that made her hurt for him. A story that was so much more than what had been boiled down and warped by the townspeople.

When she finally dowsed off she dreamed of running down the beach searching for something. The waves were towering and strong as they crashed into her knocking her off balance. Her alarm clock cut through waking her though the anxiety lingered and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something.

After a double batch of coffee to scrub any lasting grip of the dream from her mind, she made her way to Ashley’s office. On her desk was a note with a phone number scribbled across it.

“Hey, Ashley,” Emma called into the waiting room where Ashley was. “Do you know what this number is?”

“Oh, your investigator called last night. He left me that number said it might be connected to Jefferson.”

Emma grabbed the paper scrambling for the phone and dialing the number.

“Hello?” a voice answers.

“Jefferson?” Emma asks.

“Who is this?”

“My name is Emma Swan. I’m working to try to find Jefferson Page. We’re hoping to reunite him with his daughter Grace.”

“Grace?” the voice croaked.

“Is this Jefferson?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it is.”

“Hello, Mr. Page, I found your daughter. She’d really like to see you.”

There is a pause. “I’m not sure that is a good idea.”

Emma takes the phone from her ear to stare at it for a second. “Excuse me?”

“It’s just I’m not sure that I can.”

“You’re not sure you can support her? We have career councilors who can help, parenting experts, support groups. I can put you in touch with them.”

“No, it’s not like that, I want to see Grace more than anything.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There’s a reason I sent her away. My life is complicated. It’s safer if she stays where she is. She doesn’t need someone who can’t even take care of himself.”

Emma took a deep breath. “Jefferson, I know your daughter would rather be with you. You’re her father, her family. She won’t want to stay in foster care.”

“Even if I did, come for her I mean, I’m not sure I could do it.”

“Do what?” Emma asked. “Be her father?”

“She deserves someone whole, someone who doesn’t struggle with depression, who can hold down a job.”

“Grace doesn’t want someone ‘whole.’ She wants her father. She won’t care about anything else. We can get you in touch with someone.”

“I don’t need a shrink.”

“Grace needs you. We can help with all the rest.”

There was silence for a moment. “Is she okay?”

“She misses you.”

“Where is she?”

“Will you come?”

“Yes,” he said. “Where is she?”

Emma gave him directions and a time before hurrying to speak to Grace’s foster family.

Three hours later Emma stood beside Ashley as a minivan pulled into the Granny’s lot. A small blonde girl jumped out from the sliding door. Grace’s foster mother took her hand and they started toward them.

“Grace!” a voice called from behind Emma and she turned to see Jefferson climbing from a cab. “Grace!”

Grace spun looking around for where the voice was coming from. The moment Jefferson came into her view she pulled her hand from her foster mother’s and ran for her father. “Dad!”

“Gracie,” Jefferson said dropping to a knee and hugging her tightly. “Hey, I missed you so much.”

They hugged for a long moment Jefferson talking quietly to Grace making her giggle as she clung to her father. Finally they broke apart and holding hands Jefferson guided them over to where Emma and Ashley were standing.

“You’re Emma?” he asked her.

“Yes.”

“I can’t even express to you how grateful I am for this.”

Emma nodded her voice thick, “It’s good to see your family reunited.”

“Yes, she’s all I have. You are an exceptional person, Miss Swan, and I thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” she said looking at Grace hanging on to her dad as though she were grown straight from the end of his arm. She looked at her father with such admiration that it fascinated Emma. And it made her wish again she had had what Grace had.

“It’s not nothing,” he told her rubbing a hand over Grace’s shoulders as she smiled up at him. 

“These are for you,” Ashley said stepping forward with a large envelope. “This is filled with all kinds of resources and information. It would be great if you stayed in town for a little bit so we can all work as a team. But at the very least you should check in with us.”

“Okay,” Jefferson said. “Okay, we’ll stay. Is that all right, Grace?”

The little girl nodded beside him making him smile his eyes shining.

 

Emma leaned back heavily on the door letting it fall shut behind her. She toed off her boots kicking them off to the side. She shut her eyes taking a deep breath to steady herself. Today had hit a chord within her. What if her parents had been like Jefferson? What if they hadn’t wanted to leave her behind? Maybe she had been wanted, and somehow that made everything a little easier, even if it changed nothing. 

She dropped her jacket on the table by the door. She started the coffee pot before making her way to her bedroom and the closet. She opened the closet door slowly sinking down to her knees to reach to the back. Hiding in there was an old box that she pulled gingerly toward her. She ran her hands over the worn cardboard thoughtfully, before grabbing it standing up before she could change her mind and brought it with into the living room and set it down on the coffee table.

She settled down on the couch and took a sip of coffee. The warm liquid making her feel better, giving her strength for what she was going to do.

“Okay,” she said to no one. Sliding the large box off the table and onto the ground between the couch and the coffee table and cracking the lid slowly as though afraid something might jump out of it. She set the lid beside her on the couch and reached into the box her hand shaking slightly.

She pushed aside the blanket that she was told she had been found wrapped in when her parents had left her. Underneath was a collection of trinkets, the skeletons of all her ghosts. She ran her fingers lightly over all the tangible memories she decided to keep over the years. Some good, some painful. These were the treasures of her life. Some of the toys and charms worn from nights spent as a child clinging to any material reminder of family, or the poor facsimiles she had known. And others were hiding in the depths of the box- carried with her, but not revisited. 

Slowly, taking several hours she reached in pulling out every last thing, a communion with her past. She looked them over, remembering where they were from, who had given them to her, which kids at the foster homes had tried to steal them, and what they meant. Tonight she was going to face all her demons. Tonight she was going to feel her scars. Tonight she would let them have her so tomorrow they would not rule her.

 

Emma had just pulled up a stool to the counter about to eat her scrambled eggs the next morning when she saw Killian just off her deck heading toward her. She slid off the stool to get the door for him. She left it open allowing a nice summer breeze into the house.

“Morning,” he greeted lingering in the kitchen. She sat back on the stool pushing eggs around the plate not sure she was really ready to be face him. She could feel a blush tickling her cheeks and she prayed he wouldn’t notice.

“Morning,” she said.

“How have you been?” he asked.

“Do you remember when I told you about Grace, the girl who was separated from her father?”

“Aye.”

“They were reunited yesterday.”

“You doing?”

“A little,” she said with a smile.

“You must be pleased.”

“I think,” she started before meeting his eyes, “with a little work they just might make it.”

“I’m glad.”

“And how have you been?” she asked him brightly.

“You needn’t worry about me, Swan.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t,” she admitted.

He rubbed behind his ear for a moment before gesturing to her. “You seem different,” he observed changing the subject.

Emma shrugged. “I guess. Today’s a good day.”

“Indeed.”

“About our conversation the other night,” she began seeing him stiffen slightly. “I haven’t had a chance to look into Liam much. But I will.”

He breathed out a breath heavily as though he had been holding it. “It’s very kind of you.”

“I was actually planning to go the library today, if you wanted to join,” she offered.

“I’m not sure that’s possible,” he said.

“How far can you go?” she asked, not sure if that was the proper way to phrase that question.

“It depends, usually just over the ridge,” he said waving off toward the hill rising from the edge of her lawn, “and down to the shoreline.”

“But we’ve walked together almost all the way to the pier,” she said in confusion.

“Like I said, it depends.”

“What’s the farthest you’ve been?”

He looked down at his feet. “Almost all the way to the pier,” he said quietly.

She stared at him for a moment letting that fall into place, before she turned back to her eggs. She felt that blush again, betraying her.

“Well, anytime you want to take a walk I will be here,” she told him.

He smiled a small smile that was almost sad. She popped one last forkful of eggs into her mouth before moving over to the sink and setting the plate in it.

“I should be going, I have an appointment with the librarian. She’s going to give me a few tips.”

“Of course,” he said and with hardly a glance at her he slipped out of the cottage and out of her sight. She slowly shut the back door behind him, before grabbing her bag and heading into town. 

Her time at the library had not been particularly fruitful. Liam had never appeared on any census in Storybrooke, or Maine. Nor were there very good resources from the period she was interested in. But it did give her a few ideas for where to continue her search.

 

On Friday she had plans to go to dinner to Walsh. It was an end to a long week, and she was looking forward to a moment’s distraction. They were going to the steakhouse they had gone to on their first date. She didn’t think much of it until at the end of the meal the dessert came and he straightened in his chair.

“Emma,” Walsh started, “there is a reason I asked you here tonight.”

Emma stared at him warily, there was something in his tone that caused the temptation to get up and run before he could continue almost unbearable and she fidgeted in her seat.

“We have been together a few months now and though you no doubt will baulk at the suggestion I need to ask you anyway.”

“Please don’t be proposing,” Emma blurted out before she could stop herself. Something flashed across his face but it was gone before she could identify it.

“No,” he assured her. “Although, I was hoping you might be open to something else. I am moving to New York. I’m moving the business there, and I would love for you to come with me.”

Emma reached for her wine glass taking a large sip before carefully placing it back on the table. Micron by micron she let his words sink in. _Move?_ And not just move, but move to New York. Another city, another unknown place, somewhere filled with so many people, enough to make you feel profoundly alone. But she wouldn’t be alone; she would be with Walsh. 

She wasn’t sure she could make herself drop everything and move. And yet, how many times had she moved as a kid? Moving was where she felt secure. Hell, she had been in Storybrooke longer than some other places. By all accounts she should be itching to pack up and leave this town. 

But, she was not feeling the need to leave. In fact as she thought about it, this was the first time since the first week she had even for a heartbeat considered leaving. There was something holding her here. This town was a place she felt at peace, where it was familiar and she knew every corner. It was a place she felt safe. If she left now, she had a feeling she would miss it. She would miss the sunshine on the waves, the little row of shops, the old clock tower that only worked when it felt like it. Storybrooke was her home. _Home._ The word came to her unbidden and immediately she knew it was true. And though she had no experience with the word, and it was a word she never let herself think, it was exactly right.

But if she was pretending these were the first thoughts that flashed through her mind at the mention of moving to New York she was lying to herself. There was more than shops and sea foam here. And perhaps that was the most troubling. Because it was Killian that been the first thought to cross her mind. She was barely able to admit there was something let alone explore it. But, he made her feel at ease for the first time in her life. He had been there picking up her spirits after a bad day, trusting her with his secrets as no one ever had before, and starting to collect some of her own. And against all sanity she was drawn to him. If she left now she would never know what their story held. 

And yet, how could she say no to Walsh in favor of a ghost? That was absurd; she wasn’t so blinded from reality. This was an impossible story, and she had enough experience with fiction to know. How could this end well? The best-case scenario was she pined after the ghost that hangs around her house, a man forever out of reach, a man from another time, a man whose path she should never have crossed. But they had. And how could she move to New York knowing Killian would be here? Trapped by his past, and she had promised to help. How could she say yes to Walsh when her whole heart would never be in it? 

“Emma?” Walsh prompted. 

Emma blinked coming back to the present. “I, uh, you just took me by surprise.”

“I know,” he said. “I knew this was going to be a shock, that you were going to need a minute.”

It all pressed in on her and she heard herself as though far away answer him.

“Walsh, you are all I should want, but there is a part of me that is broken. And I’m not sure it will ever be fixed. These months with you have been so important to me, but this has become my home.”

He didn’t respond and she felt compelled to continue, the words falling out quickly.

“I’m not sure I could leave. And I know it doesn’t make sense, it’s all backwards and sideways and I am not sure I want it to straighten out. And now I think this isn’t right, and may have never been. Perhaps this has run its course. And I won’t ask you to forgive me for that, but I want you to find the person who can be what you deserve.”

Walsh looked back at her sadly, but she could see her words sinking in. “I understand, I wish you’d come with me. But I hope you get all you’re looking for.”

“Thank you,” she said softly.

They paid the bill and made their way out to their cars. She was grateful she had driven and not let him pick her up. 

“When will you leave?” she asked him as she reached her car.

“By the end of the week, I think. I have a truck coming for some of the furniture.”

“Well,” she said a little still overwhelmed. She was choosing to stay, and they were breaking up. “Good luck on your move.”

“Thanks,” he said. “And hey, if you’re ever in New York…”

Emma smiled, “Yeah.” 

Walsh half smiled in response and got into his car. She watched as he drove off, heading downtown to his apartment. Sliding heavily into her car she ran her hands over the steering wheel for a moment. She took a deep breath, feeling a sense of steadiness and direction as she drove home.

 

 

**I apologize for how long this took me. Thanks so much for sticking with me!!!**


	13. Dead Reckoning

Killian had been conspicuously absent over the next week. She found herself staring out her windows quite a lot before forcing herself to get back to living her life. Where was he when he wasn’t manning his watch of the waves? Perhaps someplace like where her soul went when she disappeared into one of her writing projects. Every mind builds itself an escape. But none of that stopped her from wishing deep down he were here.

To distract herself from her break up with Walsh she had thrown herself into research, and had a few heart to hearts with the other pirate in her life: Captain Morgan. She had spent hours pouring over records, tracking down some answers for Killian trying to piece together some of what happened to his brother. Finally she made a little headway with a private investigator from Ashley’s contacts that had pointed her to a historian in Pennsylvania. 

As with anything it was mostly waiting and dead ends. And she wanted Killian with her as she flipped through the endless ship manifests and county records. Even with his permission it felt like an intrusion, like she was doing it behind his back.

At their lunch that week Mary Margaret had listened as Emma talked her way through her breakup. And at the end she suggested that on the weekend Emma come over and just get out of her house and head for a little while. To be honest it wasn’t a bad suggestion and she agreed.

On Friday a package arrived from the historian. Emma carefully pulled back the flap of the large envelope. Inside was another stack of papers and a small leather bound book. She fished the book out running her fingers over the worn material. Gently she opened it reading the inscription on the back of the cover. A diary. She marveled at the embellished script that spoke of the care taken in writing long ago. 

Emma settled onto her couch and cracked open this portal to the past. Reading over lines that painted a glimpse into a world she never know any closer than this. Emma found herself grinning at some of the things written, the writer had a delightful sense of humor and had lived an enriched life. Finally some of the pieces to the puzzle were coming together.

After skimming most of the pages Emma stood and pulled out the other documents the historian had included. There was letter from him as well, letting her know about some of the information he had found for her. She straightened the papers into a pile and placed the diary on top. 

As she grabbed the envelope to throw it out something fell out of it. Emma bent to grab small glossy paper off the floor. It was a photograph. She stared at it for a long moment. And slowly the tears pooled in her eyes. She finally slipped the photo back in the envelope setting it on the stack of everything else knowing she had to get ready to go over to Mary Margaret and David’s. As she was leaving she saw Killian outside.

Emma stared at his profile for a moment, wanting to be angry that he chose now to appear just as she needed to leave, their timing always off. But that battle was over long before it started. The relief at seeing him flooded over and washed away all the other emotions. She brushed her cheeks and straightened her blouse before opening the door for him.

“You okay, love?” he asked instantly zeroing in on her red-rimmed eyes.

“I need to make a phone call,” she said brushing the back of her hand over her eyes again. “Just give me a second.”

She picked up her phone and dialed Mary Margaret’s number stepping away. She postponed dinner, apologizing profusely and explained that an emergency had come up, and she didn’t correct her when she assumed Emma meant at Child Services.

“Was that Walsh?” Killian asked. “I didn’t mean to disrupt your plans.”

“No,” Emma shook her head. “We broke up last week, he moved to New York.”

He stared at her, his expression unreadable, though something warred in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Emma.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “It was the right choice.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked her.

“No.”

He opened his mouth as though he was going to say something. Probably a speech about how even if it was the right decision that didn’t make it the easy decision. But instead he shut it, uncharacteristically quiet. And she was glad she wouldn’t have to defend her decision again, especially to him.

“There’s something you need to see,” she told him her voice tight. He was looking at her with concern.

“What is it?”

“It has to do with Liam.”

“Liam?”

“Yes,” she said waving him inside and he followed her woodenly. “He-“

“Wait,” he said holding up his hand.

“Killian?”

“Just wait,” he said.

“Okay,” she said worried. “Are you all right?”

“It’s just… this is what I’ve…” he took a steadying breath.

“Killian, it’s not bad news” she told him gently. She wanted so badly to reach out to him, to be there for him in a tangible way.

After a second he turned back to her. “You found him?”

“I started with the prison,” she told him. “There’s records of your raid on the place; accounts from guards confused as to why no one escaped in a pirate raid.”

Killian listened tensely.

“Liam is on a prison list dated 1766. But some of the documents from the next years are missing. Eventually I found another source, a diary. It stated that Liam was released from the prison 18 months after you saw him,” she told him. He didn’t respond and remained standing rigidly just out of reach. 

“There are records of him leaving England,” she continued.

“Did he make it across the ocean?” Killian asked.

“Yeah, he did,” she said. “He made it to America, he landed in Philadelphia. He was there through the revolution; he witnessed so much history. And he married a woman, Josephine, who came over with him on the ship. They had a family.”

Killian inhaled a broken breath, rubbing his jaw, his eyes welling. 

“They had two sons,” Emma told him. “Adrian and Killian. He lived to be an old man.”

She laid out the letter from the historian for him to read. She also pulled out the old diary.

“This is Josephine’s diary. It talks about their life together,” Emma told him.  
“He designed ships; one was even used in the navy. One of the last sailing vessels commissioned.”

She waited for a reaction but he stood beside her still absorbing it all.

“She wrote that Liam was known for his stories. Fanciful tales of pirates and sailing raging seas, fighting kings and falling in love.”

Killian’s lips tugged up just the smallest measure at her words.

“And the historian found this,” she said as she carefully placed the photo next to the other things. It was a photo taken from a graveyard, two gravestones side by side. The stones were slightly worn but readable. 

_Killian Jones_  
1734 - 1767  
 _Beloved Brother_

_Liam Jones_  
1727 - 1804  
 _Dear Husband and Father_

“He forgave you, Killian,” she said quietly watching him as hand slid over the photo and if he could have his fingers would brushed the words Beloved Brother. 

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Aye,” he said not taking his eyes off the photo.

His emotion was almost palpable, and it felt almost too personal. She stepped back from him leaning back against the sink to give him a little space. He stayed still for a long moment taking in the evidence before him.

He cleared his throat before turning to her. “Thank you, Emma,” he said quietly. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this kindness but it is very much appreciated.”

Her heart felt heavy with a combination of gratitude that she could give him this but something nagged at her in the back of her mind.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

“If you would, I’d like a moment,” he said.

“Of course.”

He nodded to her before retreating outside heading to the beach. Emma trailed him slowly giving him space. By the time she reached the end of the path he was a hundred feet down the shore.

She sat down in the rocky sand with her feet just in the water to begin her own vigil of the waves until he returned. The cold water lapped at them numbing the feeling in her. If only it had calmed the thoughts in her head. There was a buzzing she could feel all through her, a tension she couldn’t quite place.

She tried to imagine what he must have been going through: to spend so long surrounded by questions and guilt, and then to suddenly know. And in that moment she knew what had bothering her about this: he knew now. 

It was selfish, but if this is really what he had spent centuries on the shore tormented about, then this was the end of his story. This was his resolution; he knew exactly what happened to his brother, where he was. There would be nothing keeping him from moving forward, to whatever was next.

What would happen when he returned from his walk? Would he say his customary goodnight and be gone forever? Would they watch the sun sink into the waves one more time? Perhaps they could sit quietly in the sand and drink rum. At least that way she might not feel it as sharply.

As the time went by and he had not come back it sunk in that he might not ‘be a moment.’ She glanced back the way he had gone almost willing him to reappear, begging for that glimpse of him moving up the beach not to be her last. But he was nowhere in sight, no longer even a shadow on the beach. And slowly the cool water receded pulling away as the tide went out.

There was a deadness that settled in the place of her disappearing hope. It was a feeling she had known as she moved to a new foster home. The finish of a chapter, a closing that didn’t feel like an end.

When there were stars above her she got stiffly to her feet, an empty place inside her to match an empty grave miles away, and she made her way back inside locking the back door behind her.


	14. Anchored

That night there was a knock on her sliding door. Emma jerked awake looking around her bedroom in confusion before she heard the knock again. She slid from bed making her way to the back door and saw a familiar outline against the night.

She pulled back the door. “Killian?” she asked in surprise.

“Swan,” he said. 

“You’re really here?” she asked to be sure.

“Aye,” he said rubbing his neck.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “I’m sorry I kind of sprung that news on you. I didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”

“I’m all right, love,” he murmured.

“About Liam-“

“I want to thank you,” he said cutting her off, “for telling me.”

“Of course.”

“Now there’s something I need to tell you.”

Her brows pulled down and she leaned against the doorframe watching him shift back and forth on her deck, the boards creaked softly beneath him.

“For 300 years the thought of the past kept me here, watching the tides, waiting for something that was never going to come.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“But for a while now that has not been the case. There has been something new anchoring me here. Someone else.”

She stood there not sure how to respond.

“And for the first time in centuries I looked forward to tomorrow more than wishing for yesterday. And I have you to thank for that as well.”

Emma smiled sadly but this all felt like a preamble to some truth she was desperate to ignore.

“You have made all the difference. And now with all that you told me my past is finally at rest. The guilt, loyalty, fears, and remorse that tied me here are eased. I should feel relieved, content, at peace. But I had to see you.”

“Is this goodbye?” she asked her voice breaking. Had he come just so she would have to watch him disappear again? “I can’t lose you.”

“I-“

“Please,” she choked. “Just stay, please.”

“There is something you should know,” he told her reaching out to her. She shut her eyes not wanting to see his fingers slide past on a different plane. Another reminder of everything she had never had. Then light as a feather she swore she could feel his fingers slide against her cheeks. She squeezed her eyes shut holding on to the sensation her mind was creating, not ready to face reality.

“Swan,” he breathed the pressure increasing on her cheeks brushing over her cheekbones. She gasped opening her eyes to see him holding her face. She reached out her hands grasping onto his very solid arm.

She stared at her hand holding him. “How is it possible?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“How long will it last?” she asked him running her hands lightly up and down his arms trying to comprehend.

“Emma,” he breathed. “There isn’t much precedence for this, love.”

“Okay,” she said smiling at him. “I suppose we will have to make the most of this.”

“Have something in mind, Swan?” he chuckled devilishly.

Emma took in the sight of him before her: the laugh lines around his eyes, the stubble she itched to feel, and the lock of hair hanging nearly into his eyes. It was more open than she had ever seen him. And slowly she reached out her fingertips ghosting over the soft fabric of his vest before she moved her hands up his chest to his neck, over the beating pulse to the ends of his hair. He sighed his eyes falling shut surrendering to her.

“Ask me to kiss you,” he said barely above a whisper, a prayer.

She continued to move her fingers down his jaw and up to his cheekbones feeling the slight indent of the scar on his cheek. And then, at last, they found his lips, tracing the shape. She looked up finding his eyes open, his gaze intense and burning. 

“Kiss me,” she breathed before gently pressing her lips to his. She heard him let out the breath he had been holding and he came alive under her touch folding her into his arms. She opened her mouth and he instantly took control deepening the kiss, her pirate. The sensation warmed her all the way through and made her knees weak. She couldn’t remember a kiss this good. 

When they broke apart she was breathing heavily leaning into him, her forehead against his. With a tug on his collar she pulled him through the door, bringing him home. 

“Tonight,” she said against his lips, “tonight you’re staying.”

He allowed her to guide him in and wrapped together they stumbled down the hall stealing kisses. Her hands gripped his heavy coat like a lifeline. She needed him like she had never needed anything. If he couldn’t stay she wanted this, she wanted him, she wanted him to feel how much she needed this.

“Emma,” he breathed as she pushed the coat off him.

“Please don’t stop,” she said pulling his hands to the hem of her tank top. His eyes were bright in the dark as he gauged her. Slowly his fingers curled around the fabric and gently and he eased it over her head.

It was his turn then as his fingertips mapped every line of her. She forced herself to keep her eyes open and watch him, let experience what she never thought she would. Unable to wait any longer she reached out and unwrapped the vest from him, his shirt following. 

Taking a breath she slipped out of the rest of her clothes, and if she had expected nerves or embarrassment the light shining in his eyes burned it all out of her. She sat back on her bed and reached for him.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed into her ear as he followed her lead.

The feel of his skin on hers sparked across her nerves and it felt like waking up from a dead sleep. She ran her fingers over his shoulders and down his stomach following the line of dark hair hearing him hiss out an exhale. 

He leaned forward pressing her gently down into the mattress. She loved feeling his solid weight over her.

“Is this all right?”

“Are you kidding?” she laughed.

“Just answer,” he murmured the sound rumbling deep inside him.

“This is a very good,” she told him before pressing her lips to his. She wrapped her arms around him letting the feel of him and the sound of the sea surround her and fill a forever.

 

**One year later**

Killian stood out on the back porch of Emma’s little cottage. The feel of the wooden planks and the sound of the waves reminded him of years ago. He breathed in the brine of the sea air letting it soothe him and calm some of the nerves roiling in him.

“Hey, sailor,” Emma said quietly behind him slipping her arms around his waist and leaning into his back. He shut his eyes knowing he would never get used to the feel of Emma. Her soft touch was electrifying after hundreds of years of numb existence. His hands floated up to cover hers holding her to him.

“How was your day?” he asked her.

“Fine,” she said slightly muffled making him smile.

“Dinner?” she asked.

“Not yet,” he said squeezing her hand before turning around in her arms to face her. “Take a walk with me?”

She looked up at him suspiciously before nodding slowly. “Okay.”

He led her down to their stretch of shore feeling her curious gaze on him. Not that this was a strange occurrence but she seemed to sense this was different. 

“Is everything all right?” she asked him touching his arm as though making sure he was still with her. And that he understood, he often reached out to thread her fingers through his own just to know he still could. He was using borrowed time, a chance he still wondered how he had stolen. But he would have stolen the moon, the stars, and every grain of salt in the ocean for this.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he assured her. 

“You’re acting strange,” she said, perceptive as always. 

He leaned down to kiss her lightly. “Be patient,” he told her gently.

Her eyebrows pulled down for a moment but she followed as he started to walk again. They moved at the edge of the surf on the wet packed sand, a delicate line between the unsteady sand and reaching waves. In a comfortable silence they continued until they were just past the pier. With a deep breath he turned to face her steeling himself.

“I thought I would see every sunset across this rocky shore. Forever caught like a ship with no wind. And now I spend every day hoping for just one more. Just to have one more smile, another laugh, a dance, to be with you once more, and it’s an honor.”

“Killian-“

“Let me finish, Swan,” he scolded her quietly.

She bit her lip. “Okay, sorry.” He held her gaze for a moment.

“And I’ve one question left,” he said and he could see her remember their first poker game. He took her hand gently before slipping down onto one knee before her. Today he was hoping for as long as we both shall live.

**Author's Note:**

> First fic here! Got inspired by the phantom stories on Tumblr. Lots of chapters coming soon. Thanks!


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